


Turning Tables

by Lentomurri



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: First Time, Kissing, M/M, Murder Family, Murder Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 00:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3549545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lentomurri/pseuds/Lentomurri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Abigail saved the day?</p><p>An imaginary "What if.." if Abigail would have saved her fathers.<br/>It's a sweet thing, somehow. I was planning to make it darker, but maybe next time!<br/>Please, comment!!! I really love reading what you people think!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning Tables

Hannibal sipped the cup of tea slowly, cherishing the sight of Abigail nervously swallowing small chunks of food.   
The girl kept on side-glancing at the clock on the wall. She almost missed the cup of milk when she brought it to her lips, a drop sliding on her chin before she could adjust the aim. She thought she was doing well, that she was going unnoticed under the calm gaze of her step-dad.   
Hannibal let her revel in that illusion. Although he had always thought that the subject wouldn't have mattered to him in a fatherly way, he had, of course, learnt about teens' hormones and the discovery of sexuality. He could easily spot those signs now. The first time he had productively made use of such a knowledge had been long time before with Randall Tier - and no, it definitely hadn't been in a paternal way.   
"Is Samantha going to pick you up for school?" he asked, his grave voice breaking the silence. Abigail seemed to turn into stone. Hannibal sipped his tea again and looked at her with firm, kind eyes. If possible, she frowned even more.   
"...no." she replied, torturing the napkin on her lap. "...actually." she cleared her throat. "...actually, it's..a boy. From my French class." she stared deeply into the cereals' bowl, before she managed to look up.   
"I guess his name is not Samantha, then." Hannibal replied, amused, even if he didn't allow this to transpire. "Care to share it?"  
"Billy." she replied, trying to look completely cool, minimising the thing. "...he's nice, and he lives nearby, so, he just offered to pick me up. Besides, Samantha is with the club, this month, so she couldn't, and I didn't want to bother you, I know you have early patients, and so, you know, I thought...why not?" she didn't breath while shooting out the sentence. She sipped milk as if grasping for breath, while waiting for Hannibal to speak again.   
"...good." he replied, stirring his eggs. "How thoughtful of you, Abigail. You are really becoming an adult, and I'm proud of you. Now." she swallowed. "Why don't you pack some hummus sandwich for your...nice friend?"   
Abigail waited five seconds before nodding, smiling weakly, and she packed some of the sandwiches on the counter. Hannibal looked at her skinny back, perceiving the smell of apprehension coming out of her in waves, and stood up.   
He placed a warm hand on her shoulder.   
"If you are going to invite him over, I'll make the best dinner for you both. A...proper one." he added, and kissed her cheek. "If you promise me you'll be careful, I promise you you won't have to be this scared ever in your life, Abigail. I'm your father, somehow. And I want my daughter to be loved."  
As she glanced at him, her worries seemed to melt and turn into a wider smile. "...I love you." she replied, and hid her tired face on his chest. Hannibal let his hand slide on her hair. She smelled like vanilla. She had been using a body cream. She had showered twice, once before bed, once early that morning. Her hair had been straightened. She wore a lipstick, and that explained why she was drinking so awkwardly.   
Hannibal read all of that and read all the implications behind it, and something thumped inside him. He suspected it was his heart.   
"...It's almost eight, and estimating how many times you looked at the clock, I suspect our *Samantha* is coming at 8. One minute left, Abigail. Off you pop."   
Abigail nodded, her features switching back to a relaxed texture, and then, as she glanced behind Hannibal's shoulders, she smiled again.   
Hannibal turned slightly just to lose himself in the figure of Will standing in the door-frame, his glasses on, his velvet jacket a bit too big on the skinny, light blue shirt. His hair was a mess of curls, but all in all, his appearance was that of an anthropology teacher, a thing that he actually was since their transfer in Michigan.

Hannibal, caught in the middle of his daughter and Will Graham, contemplated once again the fate which had brought them there. 

  
Their life was the result of a domino of events, which pursued one another in a night of six months before, tiles falling down in a pattern none could have predicted.   
When everything had seemed to be lost, when Will had been surrounded by the police, when he had called Hannibal to tell them that  _they knew,_ and when the final face off with Jack had seemed inevitable, Abigail had saved the day.   
She had been a silent player, a shadow inside Hannibal's house, the gift which the man had intended to offer his beloved, like cats offering mice, although this particular mouse was alive.   
Out of the blue, Abigail revealed herself for so much more than a prey. She had escaped Hannibal's house and made her move.  
She had called Jack from a public box, broken voice and hiccups rising to make her throat clench around words. She had called, and she had lied, and she had done it extremely well, still wrapped in the cocoon of  _victim_ that she had never really been. 

“Jack...”, she had muttered, her tone so similar to Miranda, so lost, so shattered, that the policeman had felt that familiar sensation: having lost and then having found again. And in those boundaries of trust and disbelief, she had let her lie unfold. 

She had been kept captivated by the Chesapeake Ripper, in an attempt to break the relationship between Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, and have them framed. She had told Jack about her escape from her cell. That she was in a telephone box near the woods, scared and hurt, and that she was desperate, and half naked, half bleeding, covered in wounds.   
And when Jack and the police had found her, she didn't have two fingers.   
And she had told them, weeping and screeching like a little animal, how the Chesapeake Ripper had forced her to eat them. As he had forced her to eat some parts of Doctor Gideon, with had been held captivated with her. Her fingers were truly in her stomach, as late exams found out, digested in the bottom of her bowels. What they didn't know, was the absolute coldness with which she had auto-inflicted that wound. And there...the final lie, the final revelation.  
How Frederick Chilton had kept her.   
How Frederick Chilton had been, indeed, the Ripper.   
After that, everything had burst like into a dream. Will had found himself in the centre of a race of apologies from the Behavioural department, his role restored, his position as Special Agent elevated to hero. Hannibal had been publicly claimed innocent, and his support for the investigation, along with the trouble he had found himself involved in, had been defined as *abnegation and sense of duty even in front of horrible, infamous accuses * Abigail, after a rehab period, had been asked to choose, and she had chosen Hannibal as her legal tutor.   
Alana had been easily pushed away. She felt guilty for having given up all of them. Abigail, in thinking about her death. 

In Hannibal, in first giving up into him and then rush away as soon as the evidences had lead in his direction.   
In Will, because she hadn't been able to trust him, to see the good in him, to love him because of the man he was, not the psychological, fascinating case she had been pictured him as.   
Actually, Alana had been the only one which had scored three bull’s-eye in her idea about the true nature of those different characters, but how could she know? She got blinded again by the blurred lines of that distasteful event, and that has been where her role had ended.  
Three days after, Will had walked to Hannibal's place. The psychiatrist had opened the door. Not a glance between the men as Will stepped inside.  
And Will had seen Abigail alive, for the first time since Hannibal had used her death to have Will in jail. She was sitting in the living room, her hand bandaged, her ear reconstructed, and Hannibal went to sit on the armchair opposed to the couch. He looked at Will crumbling down, beside his lost stepdaughter. He had cherished the sight of Will breaking in her arms, a shattered man finally finding his pieces again. He crossed the hands on his lap, as he admired Will kissing Abigail's cheeks, hugging her as it was her turn to give up into tears, as she finally rejoiced the father her twisted life (and death) had given her.   
And as expected, after he gained his composure back, Will had been standing up and had approached Hannibal, waiting for him to rise from his armchair. Hannibal had done it. He had straightened his jacket and had faced Will, sustaining his firm, ash-blue eyes.  
Abigail had looked scared at the both of them, as the two men were facing each other with the truth hanging heavily in between. Will had been trying to catch him. Hannibal had been doing the same. Everything was laying bare in front of the players of this hunt game. No need to hide anymore.   
Will had chosen Hannibal over Jack. That phone call had been meant to let Hannibal flee -to let the Chesapeake Ripper, a gruesome killer, leave the country and keep on fulfilling his dark desires, free as he pleased. Will had walked that path: when the rabbit had screamed, his inner wolf had devoured it. And chosen the stag. But nonetheless, he had been a double-faced player, chewing the bushes to open the road for Hannibal's destruction.   
Hannibal hadn't fled away. He had waited for Jack, a Jack that hadn't come, that had U-turned right on the way to Hannibal's house dragged away by Abigail kicking in. The girl had been silently listening, she had caught hints about how dangerously her  _fathers_ were playing, and then the victim had finally took a step up to save at least one of her families, having been unable to save her natural one.   
But the plot was laying there, naked, revealed. Will was facing Hannibal, silent, his gaze wandering every single inch on Hannibal's face, until he finally got them to rest inside the man's maroon gaze.   
When the kiss had started, when Will had just thrown himself on Hannibal, when his fingers had dug inside the perfect hair, messing it around, none of them, neither Will himself, had been expecting it. Hannibal had looked startled, for the ten seconds it had taken him to realise what was going on, but after that everything had escalated, so much, so quickly, that Abigail had left the room hastily, feeling as if she was spying on her parents.   
The kiss had become deeper, a battle of desires, of secrets making their way out from their throats to meet and melt between their tongues sliding, nothing else left but the truth, the horrible, unavoidable, and yet beautiful truth. The truth of them been secretly hunting just to see each other in plain light, free from disguises, in their own self, in that chilling reality which both concealed -being monsters, and being lonely, and not being it anymore since they had met.   
For Will, scarier than admitting the pleasure of killing, there was only the fear of loving Hannibal, the idea of being banned forever from any possible redemption.  
For Hannibal, instead, it was this new awkward  _mercy_ the scariest part. He had slept through nights of planning his revenge, once it had been clear that Will had been deceiving him (when he had smelled Freddie Lounds on his neck), he had been  _day-dreaming_ about having him begging while eating every single part of him slowly, chewing in front of his eyes. 

And the idea the he had  _changed_ , that he wasn't going to punish Will was the brightest revelation of his entire life: he had pushed away all his beliefs to welcome Will once again. He had stepped out of his person suit, and even out of the stag, to embrace a sinner, a man which had tried to betray him, a man that had come back home, asking for forgiveness.  
And Hannibal had granted it. Hannibal was granting that and much more. He was allowing Will in the forest of his self. Digging in his mouth, easily ending up on the couch, Will sitting on his lap, the weight of that night pushing them down, and into each other. 

There hadn't been many words after that long, breath-taking exchange, only Will burying his face on his shoulder and whispering, in his shaky, thin voice, “Take me with you.”

And with that, it was settled. 

 

In that new reality, Abigail put the lunch in her backpack and flew in Will's arms, which asked her if everything was fine, and Hannibal understood he had known about this boy long before. 

Obviously.

Will was more like the understanding mother, in that arranged family, and of course Abigail had told him everything, long before speaking with Hannibal, asking him for advices.

Will had sent him a quick glance, and Hannibal had briefly nodded. Even the way they seemed to understand each other, now, that easy way of long-term couples, was sending shivers down Hannibal's spine. To think that he had been planning to kill that man. He couldn't ignore the fact that situations may still have arisen, situations which would have implied him getting rid of Will and Abigail, but he couldn't picture even one that would have been worth it, and sometimes, even the idea of his own survival at the expenses of them was starting to look like  _not enough,_ and Hannibal was frozen in the face of self-abnegation in front of that new, uncalled stage of his life. 

_I care._ He thought, before Abigail running out and waving her hand had called him back to reality. 

The door closed, a car started its engine and Hannibal stopped himself from looking outside of the window: if Abigail would have noticed it, she might as well have become nervous again, and he really didn't want to spoil her time with a boy that had managed to take her out of her constant apathy.

Will sighed, and offered him one of his shy smiles, before moving to the counter, helping himself with some black coffee. They weren't a  _proper_ _couple,_ much to Hannibal's dissatisfaction _._ After that kiss, and after many more during those months, and some attempts of Hannibal to go further (which had been kindly but firmly refused), they ended up living their life closer but parallel, discussing mundane things and avoiding deeper conversations, like the ones that had driven them so close, few months before. Because Will was particularly aware, now, that digging deeper would have mean  _going deeper_ in every other possible meaning, and he wasn't ready for that. 

Will slept in the room beside Abigail. Sometimes, during the night, he had crept until Hannibal's door. The man had heard him, but he hadn't made it easier for Will. He hadn't opened the door, he hadn't welcomed him in. If Will had to take that step, he had to do it without his help. 

Hannibal resumed his previous position, sitting back on the chair and eyeing Will, which had taken Abigail's chair and had moved it closer to Hannibal -a detail which the man hadn't let go unnoticed. 

“I wasn't expecting you to be so easy to avert.” Will muttered, a slightly amused tone underlying the word avert _._

“I'm easily _avertible_ when I want to.” Hannibal replied, showing a contemplative grin as he sipped his now cold coffee. Will poured more of the fresh, warm one in Hannibal's cup, under the appreciative gaze of the man. Such courtesy was highly welcome at his table, and Will seemed to have it naturally. 

Will drank half of his cup, proceeding to eat some French bread with jam. Hannibal sectioned every movement of Will's jaw around the food. A fetish of his that had grown wider since their first, hot kiss. He knew how that mouth tasted. He knew how the tongue would move around the food, to swallow. And he couldn't help it, but get lost in it. 

Will seemed aware of all of this, because after a glance he had let the bread on the plate, and had drunk again, looking embarrassed. Hannibal decided to let him have his well-deserved breakfast without any more interruption, so he turned his attention back to his own plate. 

The quietness was all around them, in the soft sounds of munching teeth and clinking cutlery. Hannibal closed his eyes to breath in all that domestic atmosphere. 

Hannibal closed his eyes to breath in all that domestic atmosphere. 

Then, a realisation dawned on him, as he glanced at the clock. It was almost nine.

“Aren't you going to be late?” he asked, politely. He knew Will's working days, and Thursday was one of them.

“I'm actually...” Will munched his toast. He looked like a male, older version of Abigail. The same fear of Hannibal's judgement. “...off, today.” he concluded, swallowing.

“Oh, I see.” Hannibal replied, eyebrows furrowed in front of Will's unnecessary agitation.

“You don't have patients this Thursday.” Will affirmed, side-glancing again.

“...how do you know?” and there was much more than a simple question, there. Hannibal didn't share his appointments with Will. That was patients' privacy. But he didn't sound irritated, just curious.

“I...might have checked your agenda.” and the voice, again, died in a rumbled whisper. Will was changing colours. He had been pale, at the beginning of that speech, and now he flushed. A soft shade of red which sank down into his shirt. _His chest must be flushing as well,_ Hannibal thought, dragging his gaze up again. Will wasn't meeting his eyes, though.

“It's not something I find polite, Will.” He admired as Will's Adam apple went down and up again, under the reddish skin.

“Me neither.” had been the soft answer. “...I find this quite ridiculous, actually.” and there, the tone had changed into _frustrated._ And Hannibal got the key in his hands. He got the grip on what was going on, and he didn't let go.

He quickly changed the pace of that conversation, not allowing Will to escape from it.

“I don't.” he muttered. “I would love to know why you did it. And why you organised your day-off around mine.”

Will's Adam apple made that delicious dance again.

“...because..” he finished his coffee with shaking hands. Hannibal didn't push. He could wait. He could wait longer, very much longer than those few seconds.

“...because I thought we might...we might solve some...some hanging matters.”

Hannibal chuckled. That was miles away from any sexy proposal. Will looked more like a schoolchild facing his headmaster.  _Hanging matters._ If someone would have told Hannibal, refined admirer of poetry, how those bureaucratic words would have made his stomach cramp, he would have recommended institutional commitment. 

And yet, here he was. Looking at Will, who was blushing and waiting for an answer, hoping to have said it  _right,_ to have sounded cool and in control and not like a total idiot, not like a man which hadn't have any intimate intercourse since Marge Verger (and nothing else with a man since some experience in college), a Will which was looking everywhere but at Hannibal, and  _that_ was what Hannibal was waiting for. For Will to look at him. For Will to be brave again. 

Will's eyes wandered, restless, unable to focus, unable to rest.

Hannibal's eyes weren't moving at all. He was focused. The reddish dots inside his iris seemed to have set his gaze on fire.

Will took a short breath, and after a few seconds of uncertainty, he looked into Hannibal's eyes, sustaining his gaze.

“...are you still hungry?” Hannibal asked, leaving the napkin on the table.

“...No.”

“Good.” had been Hannibal's dry reply. He stood up, offering gently his hand to Will, as an ancient knight. Will had taken it, standing up, facing him, swallowing air and tension as his eyes tried to read the unreadable.

“...but I am.”

Will felt the voice and the peculiar Lithuanian accent sparling clearly in some point near his groin. The anticipation made him melt.

“...Good.” he had replied, under Hannibal's unmoving gaze. “...I'll feed you, then.” had been the raw, brave, malicious ending, and Hannibal had smirked.

 

Hannibal was many things, and many of them at the same time, so strong was his personality that he held all the nuances of it strictly under control. Not a single move, not a single quirk of the eyebrow, not even his  _breaths_ weren't anything else than planned choices. Will had realised that Hannibal had exchanged the peculiarity of spontaneous behaviour for a reckless evolution into a sort of Nietzschean super-man. 

What Will was seeing now, however, had been concealed to him, although they had been disclosing their own souls to each other in a mental, mating dance for months. This man which was pushing him on every wall of the house, during their road towards the bedroom, kissing him roughly and letting a trail of Will's clothes on the floor, couldn't possibly be the same man which had politely, sexually-but-not-so-much asked him if he was  _hungry._

Will found himself strongly manhandled, and if on some manual he read about  _emasculation_ being one of the issue in a gay relationship, being the bottom partner deprived of his man dominance, his empathy was screwing that detail in favour of a screaming need, a scratching arousal which was digging in his guts, now that Hannibal was desiring him so openly, so unmistakably, now that the stag was coming for him, to reclaim him as his own, as his trophy.

As they reached the bedroom, as the door finally opened for him, to welcome him in the only part of the house which wasn't full of his scent, Will couldn't help it but feel a wave crashing on him, his skin coated in a light sweat as Hannibal undressed him, careful but firm, his under-shirt tugged out of the trousers and quickly finding a destination on the floor.

It didn't help that Hannibal was still completely dressed, while Will was already only in his trousers -where had he actually lost his  _shoes?_ What kind of assault had that been?-.

He swallowed, trying to keep his breath down, feeling the skin shiver where it had been kissed and bitten. He didn't want to show his weakness. But was it really that  _wrong_ that weakness was the subtle fabric of his soul? Couldn't he admit it, right there, in that moment, with the only man which could understand him, that he was fragile, that he was doomed with the chance of shattering and never get fixed?

“I..I need to see you.” he muttered, a trembling request from a nervous kid.

Hannibal slowed down. He put his hand on Will's cheek, feeling his higher temperature, and dragged him closer, demanding but kind, and whispered on his lips, “I thought you would never ask.”

He grabbed his hands, lead them on his own shirt. Helped the trembling fingers getting steady by kissing them, and then by kissing Will's forehead, giving him space, time to adapt, time to swallow the fear. He didn't want Will to find a shelter in his quiet stream. He wanted him to drown...but consciously.

“You know...” Will whispered, as the shirt fell down, revealing a muscular, swimmer chest. “...I thought you had another suit, under this one.”

Hannibal looked at him, confused.

“...I couldn't imagine you having a _skin_ , you know. Having an actual...body. Maybe I didn't _want_ to imagine.” he chuckled, breathing in as his hands had been guided on Hannibal's crotch. The man squeezed them, letting him feel the hard erection tensing the trousers. 

“...go on.” Hannibal whispered, encouragingly.

“I...” he grasped for words. Hannibal's request had been soft, but underneath, it had been an order. _Speak. Honour me._

“Because if I did...I would have had you in my dreams.” he shivered as Hannibal had lead his hands further, shoving them inside his own trousers, making him feel the clothed warmth. He flushed at the sensation, while Hannibal started to match his movements, opening Will's trousers and sliding his own hands inside it. He closed his eyes as the psychiatrist aimed straight inside his boxers, a quiet grip around him, a steady movement of his wrist, starting to build something inside Will.

“And would that have been bad?” another whisper, another shiver.

“...I would prefer to avoid waking up sweatier than I am already used to.”

A laugh, now. He had made Hannibal chuckle, and that had been...rewarding.

“I mean it, I...you never slept with me. I mean...I mean actual _sleeping_. It's..embarrassing.” he tried to ignore the fact that Hannibal had squeezed him stronger. And bravely, slid his hands inside Hannibal's slip, handing his arousal. God. He breathed slowly. “I have to change my shirt at least once per night, and..” he lost the trail of his thoughts, as he found the one for Hannibal's veins. He had never spoken so much, and that was due to his conscience kicking in, to keep him afloat, to avoid him to get sucked into all of that, to block his empathy from pulling him away from all those _feelings_. 

“...We are safe, then. You won't have any shirt on, today.” a gentle bite on his lobe. “...nor time to change it, even if you were to wear one.”

From there, from that casual, preliminary chat which had nothing of the dark patterns they used in their usual conversations, Will lost the sense of time and his own space. He felt the bed hit his back, and then kisses, and bites on his neck, the ones of a wolf pleasing his companion, bites which made Will wander on the roads of those that from those teeth had been devoured -Beverly, would he ever forgive him for Beverly? Had he, oh God, already forgiven him? He didn't want to think about it. He switched, he focused on the reality.

The reality was Hannibal all over him. He watched the man moving down, to circle his nipples, to make them hard and then nip at them, looking pleased as he heard Will moan. His fingers traced Will's muscles (and Will wondered if the man was following an anatomical scheme, so precise were his trails around the edges), to stop and focus on the belly, where he dug his tongue inside the bellybutton, and he felt electrical sparks rushing down to his cock. Hannibal looked down, pleased. Will's cock was straight, leaking already. The man had been too much deprived of this kind of attention, and seemed to have the resistance of a teenager. Nothing of that displeased Hannibal the slightest.

“Will.” he called, gently. “...you are tense.”

“I..I know.” had been the whispered answer, “I'm sorry.”

“I'm not.” he blew on Will's cock, making him squirm. “I'll just need you to be patient.”

He stood up, walking to the drawer, taking out what seemed a French brand of lube and some condoms. He turned, to discover Will completely hypnotised in the sight of Hannibal's naked body and obvious excitement. He smiled one-sided, and looked at Will. Not hiding, not moving. Will was admiring him. He wouldn't spoil that.

After a while, when Will had averted his eyes, he walked again towards him. Just to kneel on the floor. Will, startled, propped on his elbows. Hannibal hid one hand down, out of Will's sight, coating two fingers in lube.

“...stay like that, Will.” he muttered, putting the dry hand around his shaft. “...and watch.”

Will nodded, flushing, and as Hannibal started, as the man dropped his head down, easily swallowing, apparently without any gag reflex, Will did the best he could to keep his eyes open, to cherish that image as long as his limbs would allow him to, and as Hannibal did something magnificent with his tongue, Will opened his mouth and growled, so deeply, that Hannibal had glanced at him. It was a rare manifestation of Will's true sexual nature, something that he had smelled during their therapy – and which was so much more, when translated into the reality of his bedroom.

Hannibal slid all the way up, indulging on the tip to get some more rewarding moans, then swallowed all the way down again, and placed his fingers on Will's arse, waiting for Will to tense the frontal muscles -and consequently release the tightness behind. As Will hissed, arching and making it easier for Hannibal, the man pushed two fingers in, not caring about gradual stretching. Will hissed again, this time uncomfortable, but with the heat engulfing him around the cock,the intrusion had been forgiven.

Hannibal didn't have any rush. He moved the fingers as scissors and circles, adapting to Will's acceptance or refusal, and as he felt the man giving up to him, he added a third one. This time, Will cried out a shivering scream.

Hannibal didn't show any mercy, nor did he retreat. Will had to be trained, tamed, _prepared._ To allow him any break would have meant to satisfy Will's tendency to escape, a mistake that couldn't be made.

As he felt Will''s hands digging tight in his hair, Hannibal pushed and pulled his fingers, properly fucking him, letting the boy ride towards his orgasm.

And Will cried, and moaned, and then begged him to stop.

And Hannibal did it.

Will gasped for air, and with veiled eyes, but an incredibly firm voice, made his request to the Chesapeake Ripper.

“...break me.”

Hannibal seemed pleased at the choice of words. Not a fable _take me,_ not a begging _make me yours,_ not a brutal _fuck me._ It had been the only request Will Graham could make to his lover, his monster, his personal Jesus.

_Break me._

“I will.” had been the reply. As Hannibal crawled over him, Will remembered Alana's words.

_I feel like I've been invaded by darkness._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
  


 


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